


what goes on.

by ffomixam



Series: tumblr requests. [30]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hospitalization, Messy, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffomixam/pseuds/ffomixam
Summary: "[...] but would you be willing to do a story where Paul gets into an car accident or something that makes him essentially forget 1965-1969? I moreso want to see his reaction from learning that John and him split. Basically just Rubber Soul era Paul learning what becomes of The Beatles. Sorry again if this whole thing was weird I can barely type tbh."





	what goes on.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, i don't know either.

January 1st, 1970,

Paul woke up with a massive throbbing headache in stark white sheets with blue horizontal lines. He didn’t have sheets like that, he recalled as he sat with his head pounded as if his life depended on it. A shiver went through him and he shot up in the bed, hizzing at the sudden sharp pain it caused in his head and blinked as his vision slightly blurred for a short excruciating moment.

Once his sight was regained; he looked around the bright room. It quickly became clear to him it was part of a hospital. A private room, he guessed, as his bed were the only one in the quaint room. The radio was playing at a low volume and he could barely make out a song he did not recognise.

What was he doing here? He had just been in a minor accident. And on a moped of all things. He felt only slightly banged up, with the headache to boot, and he could feel his chipped tooth poke sharply at his tongue as he felt his upper row teeth with his tongue.

He heard a small constant beeping that had first begun when had woken up and he groaned at its sharp ear piercing tones. He desperately wanted it to stop as it did no wonders in stopping his damning headache but he had no clue as to where it was coming from and he yelled out towards the open door in hopes of attracting the attention of any nearby nurses.

Quickly came the familiar tapping of high heels on hard flooring and in the open door entrance appeared a young looking nurse. She stopped suddenly on her way into the room as her eyes met his. She looked shocked, but not the way Paul had grown familiar to from… ecstatic fans. Rather, it looked like genuine shock. Like she was taken aback, but not from excitement but rather confusion. But not a moment later; she shook her head and continued ‘till she stopped just short of his bed.

“You called, Mr McCartney?”

Her well-manicured hands were neatly folded together on the back of a clipboard as she looked down at him, politely though creases lined her brown reminding him of the appearance she made only seconds earlier.

“Yes, uh… where I am?”

He was embarrassed to ask but he had to for he had no clue as to his whereabouts. Last he remembered was him looking at the moon as he carelessly rode on his moped with his good friend Tara Browne close behind him on a moped of his own. And then losing control and smacking his face down unto some pavement. Hardly the worth the trip to the hospital, right?

“…,” she hesitated and he felt a rush of warmth reach his cheek at the apparent stupidity of his question, “London Hospital, sir.”

“London?” he asked in a volume louder than what he had meant for it to be. And with a frown he stated to the young nurse, “but I crashed in Liverpool.”

Her confusion equalled his as she looked down at him. Certainly, he wasn’t wrong? Had been visiting his family in Liverpool for Christmas and crashed on his moped one of the nights he was there. That was what happened!

“…I,” she started but was soon interrupted as the door to the room (that she had closed upon entering it earlier) suddenly opened and in it appeared a moustachioed man with shaggy hair that reached his jaw. Paul narrowed his eyes in disbelief as he looked at the man with focused concentration; it was Ringo! He looked vastly different from when Paul last saw him.

Paul whispered his dear friends name as he came to stand next to the nurse. The next thing Paul noticed about his friend was that he looked so tired. Had he not slept? What had kept him up? Surely not Paul. His injuries weren’t so severe to cause insomnia in people, right? He felt only bruises and a slight cut on his upper lip and brow.

“Oh, they shaved you,” Ringo said with a slight smile as he looked down at Paul who still sat in the hard hospital bed. He was getting pretty restless. He felt only slightly worse for wear and not at all like he should be stuck in bed for the rest of the day. And, what? They had shaved him? For what purpose? He didn’t have a beard. Not even a moustache. His hand subconsciously came up to touch his jaw. It was stubble free.

The nurse had gone to the door and stood watching the two for a short second and, in her mind, she probably thought she wasn’t perceived, before finally leaving.

“Ringo,” he whispered. He was still confused. But he was starting to think that maybe it was a side effect of his accident… or something. It wouldn’t be uncommon to be confused after a crash, right? But some things just didn’t add up. He knew for sure he had been in Liverpool. And would Brian really have let Ringo grew out of the mop top and have a moustache too? It looked too different from the rest of them.

… The rest of them. Thinking of John and George, he suddenly got nervous. If Ringo had changed appearance; wouldn’t they have too? Paul would be the odd one out. And where were they?

“It’s good to see you awake,” Ringo patted him gently on the hand that rested in his lap, “I’ll go tell the others,” and then, with a smile that Paul thought to look rather sad, he left.

Paul waited for the door to close completely before he crawled out of the bed. His legs wobbled slightly as he stepped out on the cold floor with his bare feet and he quickly supported himself on the edge of the bed with an unsteady hand as he waited for balance to return to him. He did not know he was supposed to be out of bed or not but nothing was connected to him (IVs and the such) and he felt well enough to walk. So that’s what he did.

He first went to the window and parted the drapes to look out. It definitely was London. But several things made no sense to him. There were fashion and cars he did not recognise. He felt a rush go through his head as he looked down at the streets and stepped back from the window.

When did he last had something to drink? His hands were shaking.

He went to the small sink that stood near the door and, seeing no cups or anything like it, he bent down to drink directly from the small faucet head. It was wonderfully cold and just exactly what he needed. He continued to drink with an eager need and pulled away from it with a sigh of relief. He still felt slight pain stinging the front of his head but getting out of bed and having had something to drink relieved the tight tension a little.

He looked up from the sink and his eyes met his tired reflection. He looked as he had half expected. A visible cut on his lip. A slighter one above his right brown. And he opened up his mouth and was met with the chipped tooth he had felt poking around. Nothing he felt was worth a hospital check-in but maybe he was worse for wear internally than he was aware of.

The door opened again and Paul turned to face whoever would enter the room. He was beginning to feel slightly self-conscious now that he stood out of the bed with no protection from the blanket. The hospital gown would leave little to the imagination if he turned his back to anyone.

It was a long-haired man, somewhat the same length as Ringo had been but with a lot more volume, and he was facing the bed Paul once had been in. He felt a sense of calm looking at the man though he could not see who it was as his back where facing Paul. The man’s body tensed and he turned around and with a frown finally saw Paul.

It was George! Though Paul almost hadn’t recognised him. He looked much older than how he looked last Paul had seen him. His hair too wasn’t a mop top and he also had a moustache. So his worry had been confirmed; if Ringo and George had changed their appearance too so would John, right? But it made no sense. He could hardly imagine Brian liking this look.

“What’re you doing out of bed?”

He was asked by a worried George who stepped over to him by the sink. Paul was too overwhelmed by all that seemed to go and just shrug at George who now stood at the side of the sink, his hands resting on its cold metallic edge. Paul swallowed deep and finally got himself to ask, “what day is it?”

His moped accident was on the 28th December and all signs pointed to the fact that time had passed. Ringo and George had grown out their hair and moustache. How long would that have taken? Could he have been in a coma? Surely not! It hadn’t been that bad of an accident!

“… the 1st,” George said with a furrowed brow and a rather concerned look about him.

“Of January?”

George nodded and stepped closer to Paul to gently place on his shoulder, “are you feeling well?”

This time it was Paul’s time for his brows to knit close together. So he had only been out for a few days. Past the new year which would make it 1966 but that was hardly enough time for Ringo and George’s hair to grow as it had obviously done.

“Yeah… I think. ‘m just confused, y’know.”

He lightly shook his head and went to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. It was then he finally noticed the calendar that hung on the wall. It was pin up one of various American ‘bombshells’. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out if John had been the one who had brought it here. But what really stuck out to him was the year of that stood next to December written in bold, fat, text. Who shot back up from the bed and tore off the calendar from the nail that it hung on.

It said 1969!

He very quickly turned to face George and waved the calendar at him as he muttered words he could not properly connect in his panic. Was this correct! It couldn’t be! It should say 1965! Not bloody 1969!

George looked at him in what could be pity as he continued to wave the calendar at his old friend. He stammered and sighed and sat back down unto the bed’s edge and looked at the calendar as he held it in his lap. The month’s bombshell was a blonde woman dressed in a rather skimpy Santa Claus type dress. It felt mocking and he placed it next to him on the bed.

He burrowed his face into his hands, willing away tears as his fierce headache returned. The bed dipped slightly and he removed his hands to see George sit next to him. He seemed to be studying Paul. A look was in his eyes that Paul just couldn’t quite place.

“You’re not from this time, are you?”

Paul blinked at what George said. His friend seemed wiser and much mature than what he had known of him. And not the twenty-two year old he had been. But how could he not be from… ‘this time’? He just had a slight crash on his moped. Nothing pointed to him having been in a coma for well over four years. Especially not with what George just had said. So the only thing Paul could think of doing was a mix of shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head in complete silence.

Nothing of this made sense. Nothing of this should be possible. How did he miss four years?

He licked his lips slightly and looked at George. Their eyes met and Paul blinked. It was going to take time to get used to George’s different appearance. But it suited him well. Paul nodded slightly to himself and finally asked a question that had pushed and pushed to get out;

“Where’s… where’s John?”

He dreaded something had happened to his great friend. If four years had passed; was else could have happened?

“On his way, most likely. Ringo left to get him and Yoko from the airport.”

Paul frowned in confusion at George and he continued;

“Oh, Yoko’s his wife. He and Cyn divorced two years ago.”

Divorced? He supposed that in a way made sense. John’s relationship and feelings for Cynthia seemed unstable at best. But, divorce? What about Julian? And what had Brian’s thoughts been about this? He arranged their marriage to begin with. And a divorce would certainly go against the Beatles brand.

“And… and was that okay with Brian?”

He was hesitant to ask but the situation was just puzzling. The entire bloody situation felt like a dream. He was yet to see if it was a bad one.

George visibly hesitated and looked away.

“He’s, uh… he’s dead. Died before John even met Yoko.”

Oh.  _Oh_.

“He’s… dead,” Paul repeated in quite a monotone way and nodded slightly to himself. Tears welled up and he swallowed hard and rushed to the sink. He shook. He was shaking. Fuck…  _fuck_! Brian was dead? What… “how?”

It came out to barely a whisper. George didn’t hear. Paul had no idea how to react. How could he? How do you react to something like that!

Paul felt sick. More so than before. He turned to find George staring down at his hands… Right, the hospital gown. Probably had given him quite a show. He turned back around. He drew a heavy sigh and stared hard at his own reflection.

In the mirror, he saw George stand back up and come to stand near him, a hard pitying look in his eyes.

“This can’t be easy for you. And I don’t know how to help you,” he said in a calm voice and Paul nodded carefully as they looked at each other in the mirror. “John will be here soon. I’ll let you be alone,” he said and patted Paul’s back before leaving.

And he was right. Almost as soon as Paul had sat back down on the bed, his hands still shaking as he breathed heavily still trying to make sense of the situation; John entered the room alone.

He too looked vastly different from the John he knew in 65’. Skinny. Long hair. Longer than the two others. He wore small round glasses and had a full beard. A wild look in his eyes as he neared Paul on the bed. “Paul!” he yelled out on his way through the room and stopped just short before bumping into his knees.

“George told me everything,” he said and looked down at Paul. His hair almost covered his face completely as he leaned forward.

“And you believed it?”

He shrugged, “had no reason not to,” and he sat down next to him. The same place as George had.

“You’re not the Paul from last week. Or last month. It’s visible to the naked eye. You’re two different people.”

Huh. Paul wasn’t sure he completely understood what he meant. This was all just… heavy. A heavy situation. There was no sense in any of this. How could he have gone through four years? This wasn’t Doctor Who. Not some H.G. Wells novel. And where did George intuitive ability to just… kinda sense all of this? Brian was dead. John divorced and married again. What else was different?

He swallowed deeply as he realised the question he had to ask, “how’s… how’s the band?”

He looked to John who was fidgeting with his hands as they quietly looked at each other. Paul sensed the news would be bad. Of course, it would. Nothing else had seemed to be right within this predicament he had come into.

“We’re done, Paul. Finished. No more.”

Even if the answer had been expected; it stung. Hard and painful. That it had come to this. Brian dead. The Beatles having ended. What was he to do in this strange universe he was somehow in? God, he knew it not to be a dream but, oh, how he wished it to be.

It was useless to sit and cry. But what else was there to do. The intricate downfall of his personal life couldn’t possibly be the only thing to have gone through a major change. The world, from the small glimpse he had given himself, was unfamiliar.

But this was home now, it seemed. The long relationship he had with John was done if The Beatles was. He knew this much. That it wouldn’t have taken something drastic for them to have come to such a point.

He sighed, deep and hard. Acceptance of this would come slowly, he knew.

He resisted the hard urge to yell. To cry. To throw a fit. Instead; he laid back on the bed, John staring down at him in silence. And breathed in the air of the year he didn’t belong in.

**Author's Note:**

> george works in mysterious ways.


End file.
